


Official Discharge

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah so I got this stupid idea that's been in my head for ages now, that MTMTE Drift appoints himself the, uh, the morale officer for the ship.  Allow me to run with this idea....and probably trip and fall on my face. I wrote it to distract myself from a pretty awful weekend.  So it's pure self indulgence, even more than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Official Discharge

“Um.” For once, Rung was at a loss for words.Ultra Magnus had informed him—strenuously—that part of his resuming duties aboard the Lost Light entailed meeting with Drift.Funny, because it was normally the other way around—others had to meet with him. And he had no idea what Drift’s qualifications were. Ultra Magnus at times barely even seemed to like Drift, much less recommend him.Rung had no idea what Drift was supposed to do for him: maybe teach him some self-defense?

Drift swiveled on the stool he was sitting on, beaming. “Rung. I’m glad you could come.”

He seemed entirely sincere. Which somehow managed to make Rung feel even more awkward.“I, uh, Ultra Magnus told me to—“

A quick nod, cutting off his stammering. “Yes. I know.”Still beaming.

“Well, I’m not really sure why?I mean, I don’t know if I really want to talk. You know. About what happened.” Huh. Rung wondered if this was what it felt like to be one of his patients the first time? It was horrible.

“We don’t have to talk about it, then,” Drift said, quickly.“We don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to.”

What kind of therapy was this?There was something Rung was not getting. There had to be.“Wouldn’t that be awkward?”He was already feeling pretty awkward right here while talking.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Drift said evenly. He cocked his head, as though studying Rung. “So, what are you into?”

“…into?” All right. This was probably just a strange way of asking about his hobbies.An innocuous question, one Rung often used himself. “Well, I like to collect ship models. One for every—“

Drift laughed, as though something was really funny.“Not that kind of into.Spike, valve, oral, bondage, that kind of thing.”

“What?”Just. What?If he didn’t know Ultra Magnus better, he’d expect some sort of prank. But Ultra Magnus wouldn’t, and Drift was either a consummate actor or in dead earnest. “I just…exactly what are we doing here?”

“Right now, talking,” Drift said. “Later, though, interfacing.”

Right. Rung found himself leaning against the workstation, feeling lightheaded. “I think I may need to see Ratchet,” he stammered.

“Ratchet,” Drift paused, turning to the console and calling up a screen, “is the one who ordered this.”

“Ordered. That I interface with you.” Had the world gone mad? Or just Rung?

“Well, interface.To help reintegrate the new circuits, break them in or something.” He turned to the console, showing a medical officer’s glyph at the end.Rung couldn’t not look. And there it was: orders, Ratchet’s signature and everything.

“You can refuse,” Drift said, “but I’d have to make a note o that. And Ratchet wouldn’t be pleased.”

And a displeased Ratchet was a very bad thing.”This…I need a moment.”

Drift gave an amicable shrug. “Take all the time you need.”

That might be a while.But while part of Rung had no idea what was going on, another part flared to life. Interfacing. With Drift.

The swordsmech was attractive in a fierce, powerful, ‘out of Rung’s league’ way.

“Why you?”It was a good question, he thought, one he could wrap some logic around like a handhold.

A lopsided grin. “I’ve had experience.”The way he said the word left no doubt as to what he meant. “Before the war.”

“Oh.” Oh. That…that did not help Rung’s wayward thoughts. He remembered buymechs.And Drift…?Oh this train of thought was a hazard to his capacity for rational thought.

“I could kiss you,” Drift suggested, “You can see how you like it.”

Oh sure. On one level, Rung appreciated the sense of it. On another, it seemed…unbelievable. His mind raced, already imagining the feel of those mouthplates against his.

He gave a helpless nod.

Drift stepped closer, his chestplate even with Rung’s optic level. How was this supposed to work?

Apparently Drift had thought that through, as well, lifting Rung from under his arm joints and seating him carefully on the console, then leaning in, his smile melting into a kiss. It started slowly, just the brush of satiny lip plates against Rung’s, that raised a rather delightful prickle of charge between them.Rung found himself responding, opening his own mouth, inviting more. His hands floated up, hovering, not daring to touch until Drift reached up and pulled the arms around him, without breaking the gentleness of the kiss, guiding the hands to his shoulders.

It felt…really good and Rung dizzied himself trying to calculate how long it had been, settling finally on ‘too long’.

He could have kissed Drift all day, fingers tentatively exploring the broad armor, the lines of seams where charge collected.He wrapped his legs around the lean waist, clinging with arousal.

This wasn’t happening, was it? Maybe it was some coma-dream.It felt real enough, and honestly, Rung didn’t credit his imagination with this kind of power, to conjure the delicious tingle of an EM fieldagainst his, the glossa probing his mouth, sliding along the back of his dental ridge. He’d never been kissed like that before, couldn’t know how it felt unless it was actually happening, right?

Drift pulled away, slowly, from the kiss. “What do you want?” he murmured, the husky voice sending shivers through Rung’s smaller body.

“I, uh, whatever you feel like?”

The blue optics glittered. “All right. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

He nodded, and Drift’s hands gently disengaged Rung’s clinging limbs.Drift slipped to one knee, hands pushing Rung’s narrow thighs apart, and leaned in to nuzzle the pelvic span.

Rung gasped, his small hands squeezing the edge of the console, his systems heating. Behind its cover, his valve cycled on, calipers stiff from disuse, lubricant almost stinging.

Drift opened the interface hatch, the black hand sliding out over Rung’s hip as he moved in, rubbing his nasal armor over the equipment covers.

Slowly, Rung realized. Drift was moving slowly, giving him a chance to back out.But whatever he might objectively argue, his body wanted this.

He jolted at the hot contact of a glossa over his valve cover, describing a slow, promising cicle. He had to be able to feel Rung’s arousal heat through the thin metal, ahd to suspect what the seep of liquid meant.

Drift purred, optics lidding. The vibrations were too much to withstand: Rung felt his valve cover click open, Drift immediately pressing the advantage, glossa exploring the inner rim, savoring the taste of lubricant.

Rung moaned, looking down the length of his small body at the larger swordsmech’s broad shoulders, pressing against his knees, the mouth ardent against his valve, the lip plates forming a seal and sucking, greedily, while the glossa continued a maddening complicated pattern on the valve’s sensormesh lining.

He wouldn’t last long, he knew, already feeling the charge building like a sudden, liquid pressure behind his spark. He hadn’t had this in too long and Drift was just too good and before he could even finish the thought he found himself bucking up against Drift, his hands wrapped around the helm finials, pinning Drift’s face against his valve, his calipers fluttering in overload.

Drift gave no sign of wanting to pull away, merely slowing the assault of his glossa against the valve until he finally stopped. Rung unclenched his hands, sheepishly, from the helm’s finials.

Drift rose to his feet, smoothly, mouth slick and glossy with Rung’s fluids.

Rung groaned, pulling the mouth to his, tasting himself in another, searching kiss. Drift rumbled against him, hands sliding over Rung’s body as though spreading the floating afterglow over his armor.

“What next?” Drift asked, the words almost too rich to be heard.

“Next? But I thought?” Drift shrugged. “I like to be thorough.” One hand, one finger, flirted against the spike cover which snapped back almost immediately, goaded into arousal.

“I, uh, I see.”

Drift grinned. “So.What do you want me to do? I could…?” He flicked his glossa against Rung’s mouth in an offer.

Tempting. Beyond tempting: His spike leapt to full engagement at the thought.“Could…could you turn around?” he asked, shyly.

“All right,” Drift turned, a graceful warrior’s move, showing his broad back, the way it tapered to the narrow hips, flaring out into the powerful thighs.

It was easier without Drift looking, easier to admit to himself what he might want, easier to reach out, slide his palms over the shoulders, let his fingertips feather into the throat cabling. Drift purred, tipping into the touches, his EM field flaring with arousal.

It was heady, intoxicating, thinking that Drift wanted this, wanted him.No, it wasn’t him; this was a duty. But Drift…did want this.It was something he couldn’t figure out, but his body overrode him, emboldened, wrapping his arms around the chassis, nuzzling against the neck, his knees clinging to the black hips.

Another aroused sound, the head tipping to expose more throat. Rung faltered, for a klick, afraid he was facing expectations he couldn’t possibly meet, but Drift twisted against him, the contact dragging the head of Rung’s spike against his spinal struts, leaving a trail of lubricant.

Rung squirmed back, grinding his spike against the armor, aware he was clinging, foolishly, to the larger mech, aware of the wet spot he was making against Drift’s aft.

And not caring. At all.

“Tell me what you want.” The words vibrated against Rung’s mouthplates from the throat cables he was nuzzling.

“I…I want to take you. From behind.”

A hard pulse of Drift’s field against him, an almost involuntary squirm, which shocked against Rung’s spike.

“What do you want me to do?” A strange note, as though coaxing an answer, coaching him.

Rung’s vents hitched. “Kneel,” he whispered. Drift nodded, his hands coming up to hold Rung’s in place, clinging to his back as hestepped forward, lifting Rung’s weight off the console, and then dropping gracefully to his knees.

Rung unlocked his feet, letting himself move his weight to the floor.

“Now?”

Rung squeaked. “Bend over.” A shiver of anticipation that seemed to ignite like butane. “I want to look at you first.”

A soft sound that might have been a moan as Drift complied, palms flat against the ground, hips tilted up. The scabbards seemed to enclose Rung, hovering just outside his hips.

“Uncover your equipment,” he said, voice breathy but more sure, and even more sure as Drift reachedbetween his thighs, opening his panel.

Rung ran his hands over the hips, the aft, the bearings normally hidden, small fingers plucking at fine wires in the gaps, curving over armor, but not yet daring to touch the valve cover, drawing it out, letting his optics travel with his hands, exploring the intricate platework of the powerful thighs.

“Your valve. I want to see it.”

A nod, a muffled sound, and a click as Drift autoreleased the cover. Rung could see the slick wetness of lubricant already glossing the valve, a testament to the other’s own arousal. Rung trailed one finger through it, before pushing it into the valve. The calipers fluttered, supple and ready, against his finger. He’d thought he would be too small for Drift but the calipers squeezed snugly around his slim digit.

His spike nearly ached, pointing itself at the valve like a hint.

“I want to spike you,” he breathed.

“You’re going to,” Drift said, tilting back over one shoulder. “Say it.”

“I—I’m going to spike you,” Rung said, the idea blazing across his net. “I’m going to spike you. And I’m going to overload inside you.” His finger felt Drift’s valve squeeze against him, eager, wanting.

“Yes,” Drift breathed, his hips arching up invitingly.Rung slipped his finger free, sliding his spike across the valve, scraping across the cover, drawing out the moment. In case it wasn’t real.

He couldn’t stand it any longer: he hooked his hand around Drift’s sword scabbards, his other hand guiding his spike into Drift’s opening, spike throbbing in his hands as he eased it into Drift’s valve, feeling the valve reshape itself around him.

And that was the last vestige of his self-control. He thrust into Drift, sharp strokes the entire length of his spike, his thrusts punctuated by breathy little whimpers from Drift. He didn’t think he could stop himself if he had to, posting against the larger mech’s hips, hands clinging, hooked around the scabbard attachments, riding the wave of heady power until it swept over him entirely, his spike jetting transfluid, jammed against the top of the valve.

The calipers cinched down against him, holding him in place, holding the scalding fluid inside, Drift’s hips trembling from his own release.

Rung seemed to come to himself muzzily, his spike still pinned by the valve, the hardest wave of release just beginning to ebb.

He felt…better. More clear headed, more sane than before. Which…was beyond his understanding. He sighed, letting his hands pet Drift’s hips, gentle touches this time, full of pleasure without demands. The valve gave a final flutter, releasing is grip, Drift’s spinal struts softening. Rung felt greedy, selfish, but the words blurted from him before he could stop them.

“Can we do this again?”

The valve rippled up his spike, deliberate, pulling another gasping little burst of fluid from his spike. “Now? Or later?”

Rung quivered from the last aftershock of the valve’s playful squeeze, his words a squeak. “…both?”

  


 

 


End file.
